


Flight Risk

by Pessimystic



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Drama, F/M, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pessimystic/pseuds/Pessimystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Yadda yadda. I'm not nearly french enough to own this series.</p><p>AN: Just finished Brotherhood and I had to get this out of my head. There are obviously going to be spoilers, but I kept everything vague for the most part so if you've tripped in here on accident, I don't think you'll hurt yourself too much. You've been warned though.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Flight Risk

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Yadda yadda. I'm not nearly french enough to own this series.
> 
> AN: Just finished Brotherhood and I had to get this out of my head. There are obviously going to be spoilers, but I kept everything vague for the most part so if you've tripped in here on accident, I don't think you'll hurt yourself too much. You've been warned though.

FLIGHT RISK

His teacher had always said he had excellent coping mechanisms. He would know, of course, as his teacher was also his father. From a very young age, Desmond just tended to take things as they came, he accepted his losses, rolled with the punches, exploited any advantages shown to him. His dad said it would do great things for him one day, of course not to his face. His father had a very strict, no compliment policy... well, that wasn't entirely true. The other kids, they got the occasional booster, just to encourage growth, make them pine for another compliment from the Farm's resident mentor. Nah, it was just him. Desmond was his son, he'd say, he didn't need compliments.

He wasn't technically even supposed to know about his one. The only reason he did was because he broke into his father's office one Thursday night and dug into his files. Even then, it was barely a footnote on the bottom of a record summary, halfway erased as if the man regretted putting it there at all.

Desmond remembered tearing the whole bottom of the sheet off and burning it to save the old man the embarrassment of its existence. It got him caught of course, once his dad noticed, but it was worth it. He was surprised his father didn't ask why he so specifically targeted the bottom of that sheet for assassination.

Oh yes, he would have made that joke too. Desmond was sure. His father was a funny guy. Likable. Everyone on the farm said so. He was the customer that came into your retail establishment, noticed you were having a rotten day and took the time to commiserate and buy something just to boost your commission. He was the guy who stopped to help you when your car was busted on the side of the highway in the rain and attempt to jump start your car for three hours before finally calling a friend to tow you for free. He could boost the troop moral of a caeser salad if he had to. Every time he was left to be babysat by one of the other families they'd always _rave_ about how wonderful and caring his dad was.

It made Desmond hate him all the more.

He didn't know why he saw his dad all that differently from everyone else, how he noticed the slight tightening of his dad's mouth as soon as everyone's back was turned. How his shoulders were always just a little more tense, eyes a little too bright. How Desmond never was on the receiving end of any of these supposedly awesome qualities. How the minute they shut the generator of their little hippy town off for the night, his father just... slackened, and the ranting began.

The first time he tried to articulate it, he was seven. He knew it sounded childish even then. Needy. Like his father said, no one likes a complainer. So he shut up. Brushed it off. Told himself he was imagining things. He had good coping mechanisms after all.

* * *

He was eight when he stole the keys to one of the two jeeps and drove to the nearest city. He drove perfectly of course, it was one of the classes they were given, right after algebra, forgery, and calisthenics.

He spent two days down there on a whim, using all the skills they were instilling in him to avoid the people looking for him. He spent the whole time doing normal things. He'd watch movies, go into arcades, pretend to be a student at a school so he could talk to kids his own age who weren't born with a hidden blade strapped to their arm.

Of course, when he played a game of tag with them, he didn't realize their version was different and did, in fact, _not_ include sleeper holds when you caught someone. Apparently one of the younger kids he'd tagged had an older brother, an older brother who didn't appreciate the roughhousing.

Desmond got his face slammed into a rusty set of monkey bars for his trouble. Sliced his lip clean open. He managed to stumble away from the school after he realized one of the teachers had called an ambulance. He knew enough that getting the authorities involved wouldn't help. He wanted a day out, not to draw unneeded attention to the Farm.

His dad found him huddled up against a building, hand cupped against his face to try to staunch what seemed like an unending river of blood. He was too panicked to remember he was in trouble, too in pain. His third tooth over was wiggling alarmingly and the world was fuzzy. He practically fell into his father's arms and was surprised at the reception.

The thought occurred to him foggily that he'd never just tried hugging his father before. He'd always seemed too imposing for that. Maybe this was what he'd been missing all along.

"Oh Desmond..." His father said in a low sigh, not so much disappointed as relieved. Desmond was surprised yet again. The man scooped him up, not caring as blood leeched into his white canvas jacket. The boy just clung to him, fading in and out until he woke up in a hospital, a nurse leaning over him, jabbing a cotton ball at his oddly numb face.

He remembered keeping keenly still, judging his surroundings first like he'd been taught to. He heard his father's voice, just outside the door. Desmond had to sit up to see his face clearly. The nurse finished cleaning him up and went to speak with his father.

"Don't worry," She'd said, voice pleasant, "He'll be just fine. Couple stitches and a nice scar to win over the ladies when he gets older."

His father's face sharpened, "Scar?" he managed to listen to the woman's soothing response and wait until she proceeded away before he walked into the room on leaden steps, face looking like he was about to face an executioner. It was the first time the man had the opportunity to look at the damage without all the blood in the way. He reached out and stiffly pushed Desmon'ds face so he could see it better in the light, to see the red line that shot down his lip.

He looked like someone had died, and for some reason, Desmond felt that it was him. Fairly appropriate, as any hopes of understanding the man died with that look.

After that day whatever harshness in his personality that Desmond had taken issue with before, tripled. He'd been sorely mistaken before when he thought his training was tough. _This_ was tough.

"Desmond," His father said any time he even made a hint of a complaint, "Things are different now. You have to accept it."

He never did explain why.

He ran away several times between then and his final act. The uneasiness of his entrapment scouring the inside his skin. The feeling that he was trapped in a community of the blind, dumb, and well armed. Armed to kill. Each family's progeny growing old enough they could move out and take up their lot in life as Assassins.

Desmond didn't want it. He wanted the normal. The quiet. The life that didn't demand he just accept that he had to kill people. That there was some overbearing evil enemy that he had never seen hide nor hair of. No proof. No one to be afraid of but those he shared a house with.

He liked a lot of the other kids there, to be sure. A lot of the youngest ones followed him around like an adorable toddler train. He liked kids. He liked being nice. He didn't want to be the stone hearted assassin his father wanted him to be. So when his father came to fetch him at thirteen and tell him he'd be accompanying him on his first mission... well.

There wasn't a choice anymore. He escaped.

* * *

He stole a new identity within the first week and enrolled himself in an exchange student program. Got himself out of the country. Not far of course, at least at first. Nothing that would require vaccinations or blood tests as the new identity wasn't anywhere near that solid yet. He ended up in Ontario, shacked up with a nice host family who though he was a darling little boy who asked the darndest questions like "What's a Scooby Doo?" or "Where do you keep your throwing knives?"

He learned what was normal or what wasn't very fast. He was a quick study. Always very polite, not as an act, but because he was genuinely happy for the experiences. Happy that these people were so trusting of the world that they'd allow a strange boy into their house. He stayed with a new family every year, conning his way into a new program, whipping up a new identity. His assassin skills faded each time. He had no use for them. No need. He kept a few. Forgary, of course. He also invested in a set of lock picks and a bump key. Any other skills that could help in the side jobs he kept. Enough to pay the fees for his stay with the family until it was time to leave.

He kept it up until he looked old enough to pass for 18 and made another identity, his best one yet. It was one he intended on keeping. After that, even those skills slipped some. It was tough to keep up with the times. He retained enough knowledge to spot a fake ID at the bars he tended to work at.

Time passed, and he thought he was free.

* * *

He woke up with a agonizing hangover and a tattoo one morning. A loop of black designs running around his left forearm. The simultaneously sharp and fluid lines looping around various Assassin symbols laughed at him that morning, telling him he was never going to be free. That it was still in his blood. That he should just accept it.

He told his friends it was some stupid tribal tattoo he didn't know the meaning of and wore long sleeve shirts from that point on.

* * *

Ten years. _Ten years_ separated him from his training. His reflexes were shot. He had a normal crappy apartment in Chicago over a deli who liked to dump their rotten food in the dumpster _right_ next to his one window. Had a normal dysfunctional relationship with a girl named Chloe which was more dys than function these days. The only thing keeping him from descending into an entirely sedentary lifestyle was when he occasionally had to bodily throw a drunk out of the side door of the bar. It was the longest he'd ever stayed in one city, let alone one country. He'd seen a million things in that decade, gotten into a lot of trouble and back out of it again.

He was happy. More or less. But that was how normal was supposed to be.

The change of scenery didn't even feel like running anymore. He even broke down and got a motorcycle license with only a twinge of well hidden instincts. He didn't know why he worried about it. No one was chasing him, and if they were, all they'd have would be a description of a thirteen year old version of him and a name he didn't even use anymore. He didn't worry about it anymore, he didn't think his dad, manic control freak hippy cult leader that he was, was even that dedicated. He was probably telling everyone at the Farm that he was dead to save his pride.

Well... that's what he thought. Until that Friday night when some remnant of a reflex told him to look up from the bar top at the exact moment his father walked through the door. Desmond hit the floor, pretending to drop a glass so the two people to his side wouldn't make a fuss about it. It was merely a precaution, they were well on their way to an uncomfortable drunken one night stand to pay him much attention. His coworker though...

"Dude, you alright?" Jake mumbled, slightly amazed but knowing better than to show it on his face.

Desmond flattened his back against the inside of the bar, low against the wall so no one could see him unless they were standing behind or on top of the table. He swallowed idly and sent a blase look up at his friend.

"Oh yeah, this is what I do for fun," He flicked his eyes up to direct Jake's attention to where his dad was crossing the bar, "If he asks, I'm not here, you've never met me. Got it?"

The realization showed on Jake's face for only a second before it was quickly covered back with his happy, give-me-tips bartender face. Desmond was all of a sudden just happy he worked in a bar like this. Not only were they willing to pay you under the table in cash, but they also didn't bat an eye to someone hiding from the cops under their roof. They considered it added color.

"Hey there," Jake readied a glass as the Assassin made it to the bar, face holding an unconcerned optimism, "What can I get for you?"

"Oh, don't worry about it, I'm just have a question for you. I'll tip you for your time." The voice hadn't changed over the years. That charismatic easy tone that just made you want to befriend the guy. Desmond didn't think he'd feel the old resentment bubbling up so quickly but there it was, rushing up to hit that barricade of sarcasm like flood waters burying an unprepared town. He could feel his eyes darkening, but managed to keep the rest of him still.

"Yeah, sure. What is it?" Jake shrugged, playing along.

Desmond coolly noted the sound of paper being unfolded, probably a 8 x 11 sheet tucked in the back right pocket if he knew his dad, and to his annoyance, he still did. It was the only pocket he used. There was a logic to it. The front two were out because if you had anything in the front pockets, they'd cause noise when you walked, and your left back pocket was unusable because you generally should always keep that hand ready in case you needed to pull a weapon. So. Back right it was.

"I'm just looking for the guy in this picture, Desmond Harris probably, maybe Desmond Mitchell or Rivera. Have you seen him around here?"

Motherfu-. He knew his first two aliases. The ones he hadn't used in _years_. Son of a bitch. He was glad he never reused them.

Jake made a play at looking at the paper before shrugging, "Desmond? Nah. I'd remember a stupid name like that."

Desmond glared at him from his hiding spot. Asshole. Apparently he got a similar reaction from his dad, because the smile faded on his lips. "Y'know... in my opinion." Jake shrugged futily before coughing, "Yeah, sorry. Never seen him."

The air suddenly got more tense, "You're sure about that?"

Jake faded a bit more under the scrutiny before bristling, " _Yes._ I am." _'you sure you wanna start something?'_ his stance added. Desmond almost hit him in the leg to warn him away from that. His dad could wipe the floors with him and probably had six knives and a gun stashed somewhere on his body.

The paper sounds came back, he was probably folding the paper back up, slowly, from the sounds of it... and then a sound Desmond wasn't expecting escaped the older man. It was a sigh, nearly inconsequential, but to him it conveyed a wealth of information. His dad was worried... sad, exhausted. Desmond clenched his fists. It was just a trick, a ploy to garner sympathy from Jake... right?

"If..." His father's voice said again, tired, "If you see him. Tell him to watch his back and get out of town. They know he's here."

Desmond rolled his eyes. Obviously. Weird for his dad to give him warning though.

True to his word, the slide of money across the table was his goodbye. Desmond didn't dare come up even then, he just melted. Jake's gaze swept over to him, amazement there.

"Dude!" He gaped, "That guy was... Are you Al Quida or something?"

Desmond shoved him roughly in the legs, "Shut up..." He glared before he sank again, thinking over his options in that cool detached way that had earned him that compliment all those years ago. He ran over his options and came to his only conclusion.

He pulled his wallet out of his pocket (right side back pocket. He was never able to break the habit) quickly counted the money inside before slipping the ID out of the plastic sleeve and snagging a lighter they kept behind the counter. He held the ID in two fingers and ran the lighter over it until the information was unreadable, then dropped it in the trash. Goodbye Desmond Harris.

Jake watched, looking more and more shocked at the moment. "You're leaving? You're actually leaving? Des, who was that guy?"

"Just a crazy old man," Desmond said dully, mind ticking a to do list already. He checked the clock. Almost closing time, people were filtering out already. He looked up from his position hiding behind the bar at one of the closest friends he'd had for a while. He owed him an answer at least. "Yeah, man, I'm leaving."

Jake took that in for a second, nodded slowly, and turned back to the remaining bar patrons. They cleared out quicker than usual, seeming to sense the urgency. Desmond only stood up again after they'd all left, rooting around in the back room for the tools he'd need to pry off the license plate off his bike until he could get a new one. When he came back out, Jake dropped a shot glass in front of him.

"One for the road, right?" Jake shrugged, lifting his own glass. Desmond sighed at his, running a finger along the side in indecision. He really shouldn't be fogging his brain up any at that point. "To old times and amazing friends who are going to help you escape Chicago unseen right?" Jake smirked.

"You don't have to." Desmond immediately protested but the other bartender stopped him.

"You bailed me out of jail last month, I should at least help you duck homeland security. Only seems fair."

"Asshole." Desmond growled in his least eloquent toast ever before he grabbed the shot glass, saluted, and downed the whole thing.

Jake slapped him on the arm, "It was nice knowing you man."

Desmond shrugged, waving it off, "Eh, let's not get all mushy here."

"No, really. It's a shame."

For some reason, ten years separated or no, some _sense_ shot up Desmond's spine, fingers tightening on the glass. Something was wrong here. He looked up slowly at his friend, eyebrows pinching together at some uneasy x factor he couldn't place. He felt... fuzzy. Alcohol never hit him this quick... what.

The room started sliding apart, his vision doubling. Desmond grabbed onto the bar, trying to hold the world together.

"Jak..." He mumbled, "What..." the world continued sliding sideways. He was standing up only because he was leaning so heavily on the counter. He heard Jake's footsteps come up next to him, curiously loud as the world blurred for a moment before returning to focus.

"We weren't sure for a long time." Jake's voice said in an entirely new tone, "All we had was a picture of you when you were seven and some age progression software and that kind of stuff is always up to such interpretation."

Desmond's knees gave out and he crashed gracelessly to the floor, still somehow vertical as his hands gripped the bar.

"What..." Desmond managed to get out, "Who- _Why?_ "

Jake just watched as his grip gave out and he slid bonelessly to the floor.

* * *

"So you're really an Assassin? Like Altaïr?" Lucy had asked.

He'd responded mostly out of desperation. He didn't want to sound like some clingy lovesick puppy, but he'd only just found the thread of Not Insane in this place. Lucy. Someone who didn't seem to view him like a lab rat who had the curious ability to talk. Someone who didn't seem entertained by the idea that they'd kidnapped him for their purposes, that he was watched by cameras while he slept, and ate, and _showered_ for chrissakes. That he was forced into some crazy experiment where he had to go back into the crusades and shove slips of metal into people's eye sockets.

When he talked to her, he almost forgot about all that. So yeah, he answered her. He told her about the Farm, not giving any specifics even though he was sure they would have relocated by now. He told her that he left, barely explaining why. No one likes a complainer after all, and it all seemed so childish now. He told her he left when he was sixteen, a lie, but only one on reflex. He'd been rounding his age up three years for a while now to line up with what was on his fake birth certificates. Plus he didn't want to cast the place in a bad light.

He almost felt guilty now. Stupid, yes. His father had been right, and he'd made an ass out of himself. Got himself kidnapped. Used against them by the enemies he was always talking about. He shouldn't have got that fucking motorcycle.

He'd told Lucy that he didn't mind her asking, that it would give him something to think about. Truth was, he'd been thinking about it since he woke up, strapped to a table with the Animus digging through his brain. Now, lying on his side on the bed to hide his face from the red blinking light of the camera, he had very little left to think about.

... He wondered if his dad was still looking for him.

He shut the thought down. Wrapped it up gently and placed it in the back of his mind. This wasn't the time to be thinking about it. Right now he just had to roll with it. Seven days, that's what the Doc had said. He could last that long. After that point, the security would probably slack, especially if he didn't fight them too much. He could lull them into a sense of security, seem harmless, not let on that he was remembering tricks as he watched Altaïr.

He'd pretend to be normal. He was good at that.

* * *

The thought didn't resurface until he clawed his way out of Ezio's memories, the image of his-no _Ezio's_ dad swinging on a rope burned into the back of his eyelids. The only indication he gave of any of this was that he sat up slightly faster than usual from Rebecca's baby. He made a few jokes, pestered Shaun to see how far he could bother before the British man broke his sarcasm circuit (an event he was still looking forward to), excused himself to stretch his legs, and found a quiet corner of the storage warehouse to scrub the memory from his brain.

He didn't know why he didn't talk to the others. Why he couldn't, not even Lucy. In his entire life, he'd kept his thoughts to himself. They were usually too crazy to voice anyway, not exactly something you could talk over with a friend. Besides, they were all as stressed out as he was. They could all feel Abstergo's breath on their necks. They didn't need his daddy issues.

His escaping had apparently put the Templars on red alert. He couldn't help but wonder if his parents were out there in one of those teams Shaun was ordering around. He'd tried to intuit answers from the wall of information Shaun seemed to be consulting but he had no context to decipher it with. He didn't dwell on it, he couldn't.

Anytime he sat down to think about it to hard, the ghosts of past lives would crash in. The blue tinged bleeding effect driving his concerns into the back corner of his mind, dragging him off to Acre without his permission. He let the thoughts of his father fade again as Ezio's life overtook his.

* * *

"How many of the other Assassins do you know?" Desmond asked one night in the truck, driving across the Italian countryside in the inky black of night. Lucy was driving, as he wasn't allowed. The bleeding effect happened less often now that their limited power supply cut down his time in the Animus drastically, but a few seconds of thinking he was in Venice could equal them getting run off the road and into a ditch. They didn't risk it.

Lucy rolled her shoulder in a shrug, taking her eyes off the road for only a moment, "A lot of them, though I haven't met most of them in person. Mostly email."

"Assassinations directed by email. That's better than pigeons I guess." Desmond grinned, "You guys send each other chain letters. 'Forward this to five other assassins or a puppy will die.' kind of thing?"

Lucy laughed under her breath, "No. No spam either, we practically have our own internet. Impossible to break into. Assassin purposes only."

Desmond raised an eyebrow, "Rebecca?"

"Yeah, she set it up. How'd you guess?" Lucy faked being amazed.

"Brilliant deduction skills."

He let the comfortable silence drag on, both because he simply liked being with Lucy and he didn't really want to ask the next question. He sort of wished now that the bleeding effect would take him away for another thirty seconds, just to buy him more time. Then he realized he was being stupid and forced the words out before he could second guess himself further.

"Do you know what happened to my parents?"

The silence turned quickly uncomfortable. Lucy gave him as long of a sympathetic a look as her perfect driving record would allow her, "What are their names?" she asked softly, knowing this wasn't something he'd want their sleeping team mates to be in on.

"Ethan and Caroline." Desmond answered, leaving off the fact that he wasn't exactly sure that was correct. In his time at the Farm his father introduced himself with no less than thirty seven different names. Ethan seemed to be his favorite, and was the one most of the adults addressed him as.

His newly installed assassin training picked up on the tightening of Lucy's grip on the steering wheel, her eyes flickering around on the road ahead of them restlessly.

"There was a Caroline..." Lucy said slowly. She pinched her lips together for a moment and let out a breath, "Her team went dark five years ago and never resurfaced."

Desmond stared at the side mirror of the truck. "Oh."

"I'm sorry Desm-"

"It's fine." He answered a little too quickly, took a calming breath, and tried again. "It's fine." It wasn't. It didn't matter. He was Captain Passive Aggressive, champion of coping mechanisms. He could bottle up a trauma faster than a speeding bullet.

He wanted to kill something.

Instead, he pressed on, "And my dad?"

"I don't recognize the name," Lucy said slowly, "But that doesn't mean he's not out there. We use secondary names all the time."

"Mmhm." Desmond mumbled though he wasn't really listening. Silence descended again. It was uncomfortable but Desmond couldn't really bring himself to care. He was back in that frame of mind, taking each thought, turning them over, categorizing and scrubbing them down to their most base, clean, dealable components before rearranging them into a more workable machine.

"Lucy..." He spoke quietly, his voice less strong than he would like it to be.

"Yes Desmond?"

"We're going to save the world, right?"

She paused, but her voice was sure, "Absolutely."

"Good."

* * *

William M.

The name hit him like a truck.

"You alright over there Des?" Rebecca leaned around the Animus chair, peering at him with worried eyes. Desmond took stock of himself, noticing he was bracing his hands on either side of the laptop like the room was about to fly away from him.

"You aren't going crazy again, are you?" Shaun added.

"Shaun!" Rebecca threw a pen with deadly precision, the plastic tube hitting the British man squarely on the forehead. He looked simultaneously miffed and betrayed for a moment, like a cat who'd been dunked in a bath by their favorite human. He turned to try to bid for some support from Lucy but decided not to bother once he saw the look on her face.

"Riiight." He drew out the word, "My bad."

Lucy rolled her eyes and got up from her chair, "Really though, are you having a vision again?"

No. "Yeah," Desmond said aloud, pretending to watch an invisible someone walk across the room. "Nothing to worry about. Just took me by surprise."

"...okay. If you're sure." Though she didn't sound happy about it at all, she let it go. She'd been doing that more lately, and seeing this email, he was beginning to wonder why. He couldn't ask of course, he hadn't told them that he'd been snooping around their emails for the last several weeks using a password he'd been given by an anonymous third party.

He didn't linger at the computer, he didn't want to draw attention to it. Instead, he just walked up the steps, snatching the small radio from the table, and announced that he was going to walk around Monteriggioni again.

William. Not Ethan.

The memory of that report flashed into his brain, he remembered dimly see WM at the bottom of every sheet. He remembered people coming to visit the farm every so often, clapping his father on the shoulder, and affectionately calling him Will. He hadn't considered it because, of all the names he used, it was the one he used least, though that made sense. He was a paranoid bastard.

Just when he was starting to have some sort of respect or affection for the man, he had to go find this. These letters. Lucy had been worried about him, he knew that already. He'd seen the email from Rebecca about his embarrassing screaming at night. He'd taken to sleeping with this face in the pillow because of it. He also knew Lucy was reporting to some higher up. That Shaun was getting his reports about all the other teams from somewhere. It was all from William, from his father.

A father who was evidently in Europe, if not Italy, and hadn't felt the need to drop in. A father who had been told, by Lucy, that Desmond was having these troubles. That the Animus was starting to twist his mind, and what did William M. say?

Keep going.

Not a hint of concern. Not a question about him beyond that. As a matter of fact, he'd outright told Lucy that she should disregard any _feelings_ she might have (a statement that made that warm fuzzy flame he had for Lucy burst into an inferno before being immediately put out) for Desmond because it could cloud her judgment.

That son of a bitch.

Desmond ran across the rooftops of Monteriggioni, stopping only when he had no breath left and the horizon was starting to get an alarming pink tinge. He collapsed in a heap on the Villa's broken roof, flopping sideways to stare at the stars that were left, a sense of dread twisting around his spine.

He lifted his arm and worked a finger underneath the straps of the hidden blade's sheath, tugging it off his arm to stare at the black ink imbedded on his skin. As he stared at it, he realized something. He'd never really escaped. He may have not been on the farm all his life, he may not have gone on missions, or bond with his father over the slowly bleeding body of a Templar, but he'd never really left.

The war between the Assassins and Templars had tied him in so tightly that he would never escape. Fate or maybe just his Father had made sure he'd be here, doing this, because some glow in the dark bitch said his name to an outcast Italian noble in the late1400's.

Did Ezio ever feel his way? Did Altaïr? Trapped?

Yeah, probably. No, _definitely,_ they felt that way. He'd felt it through them. The real question was, did it matter? Did the fate that had made their lives difficult matter in the scale of things. Did it keep them from doing good, from saving whole countries, whole _worlds_? No. No it didn't. They did it in _spite_ of those conditions.

In the last few months, Altaïr and Ezio had raised him far better by example than his father had in the entirety of his existence. So when Lucy's voice buzzed over his earpiece, he didn't question her about William M. Didn't demand to know where she kept disappearing to or if she really did feel something for him.

He joked. He ruffed Rebecca's hair, bothered Shaun, replaced Lucy's dwindling coffee with a new cup, and got back into the Animus.

* * *

The blackness was all around him yet he could feel... sort of. Feel in the way he could while in the Animus. A mere sensory imitation that seemed more real the longer you were in.

He shouldn't have touched the apple.

The though appeared and escaped, replaced by blackness.

"He's seizing." A voice said, one he didn't recognize.

"Quick, bring him over here." A voice he did recognize. His father. All of a sudden he was that scared child, convinced he was going to bleed out from a cut on his lip, more than eager to just let his Dad take control of his life and keep him safe. Then the voice continued, "Get him in the Animus."

"But, the Animus is what did this to him!"

"You want my expert opinion? Do as I say."

Desmond would like to say he was surprised, betrayed. But he wasn't. He was tired. Resigned. Yet again, back in a prison of his father's design. He curled up in his own mind and let himself return to Roma. To Ezio and Claudia and Leonardo and Machiavelli. For now, he'd accept what was coming to him. Happy to be with people who treated him so well without even knowing he was there. Happy to get away from remembering what he had done.

He'd bide his time. Wait for an opening, pretend to be harmless, helpful, and when the time was right. He'd escape. He'd do what was right with or without their help. It was all he had left.

* * *

He'd fly.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Okay, so that voice could have very well been Vidic. I don't care. I like this theory better. :D Also, that dialogue is... paraphrased. I thought the game was over and I was only half listening when they said it and there are no scripts up yet.
> 
> All in all, I loved Brotherhood. Smidge oddly paced there at the end but what are you going to do? I actually really like the modern day team. I think they're a little under appreciated. Partially because of the game. There's some interesting stuff to be explored that they really just don't have time for. Pity.


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